Earlier text: THE OLD BROWN HOUSE.DURING the winter of 1846 I went with John H. W. Hawkins and Dr. Charles Jewett, to Woodford, where we were both to hold a temperance meeting, and organize a Washingtonian Society. The weather was favorable, the sleighing excellent, and the meetings were large and of the most enthusiastic character. People came from many miles around, and we had the pleasure of seeing a large and vigorous society springing into existence. The first day, while Mr. Hawkins was telling his experience of sorrow and misfortune from the intoxicating cup, I noticed a poorly clad, middle-aged woman, who wept and sobbed as though her heart would break. At the close of the meeting that woman was among the first to place her name to the pledge. When she had laid down the pen, and returned to her seat, I looked to see what she had written. It was a tremulous hand, but delicate and exceedingly well274 formed; and the name she had written was “BERTHA MORRISON.” “Poor woman!” said the newly elected president, when I asked him if he knew her. “Her’s has been a hard, sad fate. Once she was the fairest and most blithesome of all the maidens of Woodford. She married Tom Morrison, a brave, impetuous, handsome fellow, a sailor upon the lake, and for a time she was the happiest of the happy. But the demon came, and joy was gone. One child, a boy, had been born to them—born to shame and misery. Tom sank lower and lower, until he finally dropped into a drunkard’s grave. Her son ran away and went to sea; and when she last heard of him he was on shore in a distant city, running a wild race of riot and dissipation. She has put forth every exertion in her power to save him; but thus far he has avoided her, and she has not been able even to see him. Still, he is not entirely evil. He has sent her money several times. Once he met a man in New York, who was coming to Woodford, and by him he sent to his mother the last shilling he possessed, and then went and shipped for a voyage to India.” The president would have told me more but his attention was called to business, and I was left to reflect upon what I had heard. Our last meeting was on Saturday evening, at the close of which a collection was taken up for the benefit of the secretary. I had been watching the poor widow, and I was still looking that way when the contribution box was passed down the slip in which she sat. She spoke to the collector, and I saw her drop a piece of money. When the box was brought to the desk I asked the man what Bertha Morrison had said to him. “She told me,” he replied, with moistening eyes and quivering lip, “that she gave the last mite she possessed in the world, and she hoped God would bless it. She had kept it because her son had sent it to her. It was an English shilling, and her boy had sent it when it was the sum of all he had in his purse.” I asked the man if he could distinguish the piece. He said he could, because it was the only piece of the kind in the box; and directly afterward he brought it to me. It was bright, with the stamp fresh and unworn, and upon the side bearing the crown I noticed the letters, “D. M.” cut in as though with the point of a knife. I gave the collector a silver dollar and kept the widow’s mite. I not only prized it for its touching associations, but I meant to make it a symbol of devotion in my appeals in the future to my fellows. This was in the winter. During the next autumn I was in Baltimore, where I visited the Penitentiary for the purpose of conversing with those poor unfortunates whom love of strong drink had dragged down to those prison depths. “There’s about the toughest case we’ve got,” said the warden, pointing to a man who sat upon a low bench, in a corner engaged in making a boat sail. I gained a position where I could see the man’s face. He was young—not more than two or three and twenty—and the face was one that attracted me. He had been a month in the institution, and the track of the demon was gone, and the hue of health had come in its place. I could judge that he was self-willed, and not to be driven; but there was native goodness beneath the surface, and I was sure that in his bosom was277 throbbing a great and generous heart. I felt strangely drawn toward that young man, and at length I asked the warden if he would send him to his cell, and permit me to be alone with him there. Consent was cheerfully given, and the turnkey was called and directed to conduct the prisoner away. Meantime I had been informed that the man’s name was John Thompson, and he was a sailor. He had been imprisoned as a common drunkard. I entered the prisoner’s cell, and the door was closed and locked behind me. I took a seat, at the same time extending a cheerful salutation. “Look here, mate,” he said resolutely, but with not a particle of impudence, “If you’ve come here to preach, you’re on the wrong track. I don’t want to hear a word—not a word!” I told him I was not a preacher—that I once followed the sea, and had been a poor unfortunate victim of strong drink. At first his face grew bright with sympathy, and then it darkened again. “So you’ve come to talk temperance to me?” he said, somewhat bitterly. “Not if you object,” I replied. “But I have come to see if you do not think there is something in you of good worth saving. You’ve been drifted upon a lee shore, that’s all. Why not down helm, brace up sharp, go about, and stand off? There’s plenty of sea-room left.” And then I told him a story of a narrow escape I once had from a lee shore in a gale of wind, off the coast of Sicily. Finally I led him to tell me some of his adventures; and it thus came out that I found him to possess not only rare intelligence, but a rich fund of sense and humor. By-and-by I ventured to ask him concerning his friends and relatives, and after much effort I gained from him that all his near relatives were dead save his mother. “And she—she—may be dead before this!” he said. “But, if she still lives, she has forgotten me.” He tried to speak calmly and as one who feels but little concern; but his heart was too much for him, and his speech faltered, and he rested his brow upon his hand. “Ah,” said I, “you little heed a mother’s love when you say that.” And then, as exactly and peculiarly fitted for the occasion, I told him the story of the poor widow and her mite. I told it feelingly, and with earnest zeal. He buried his face in his hands, and I saw the tears trickle down between his fingers. His frame shook, and once he was so mightily convulsed that I stopped, but he recovered and I went on. “Where was it?” he asked in a broken whisper, when I had concluded. “In the town of Woodford,” I told him. “Did you say that you had that piece of money now?” He looked up, and his face was like marble. The tide of life seemed to have set back into his heart. I told him I had it; and I took it from my purse and handed it to him. He looked at it—turned it over and examined where the letters had been cut in with a knife. And then his heart swelled, and the surging flood burst forth. He wept and sobbed, and called, “Mother! mother! mother!” Finally, in broken accents, he said:— “I sent her this! It was my last shilling! And when I sent it I prayed that280 God would turn it to some blessing for my poor mother. I am here under a false name—I am Donald Morrison.” Again he sobbed until his heart seemed ready to burst within him, and when he next looked up he stretched forth his hand imploringly. “Leave me! Oh, go away for a time, and leave me to myself! Leave me a little while, and then come back. Let me keep this.” I called the turnkey, and went out, and to him and the warden I told what had transpired. They were both kind-hearted men, and were deeply affected. In half an hour I went back, and found the prisoner upon his knees, with his head bowed upon the edge of his cot. He arose as I entered and extended his hand. “Please don’t talk to me now,” he said. “I can’t bear it, I am too full.” “But,” I ventured—for I had received encouragement from the warden, “Suppose I could get you out from here, could let you breathe heaven’s free air, with liberty to go where you pleased?” He grasped my arm, and a new glory was on his handsome face. “Oh, if you could do that I should be saved! You would give to my mother a son!” That evening I went with the warden and saw the judge who had passed the sentence, and with him we visited the mayor. I told my story, and in a few hours Morrison was free and jubilant. After a time he took my hand and said:— “I know they have given me into your care. The warden told me so. I want to go alone. I don’t want them to know of this until I have proved to them what I can be. You have given me back my manhood, and I now ask you to trust it. I will write to you—I will write of everything as it is. Will you trust me?” I trusted him; and I was glad to do it; for it would have taken a week of my time to have accompanied him home, and my engagements were just then pressing. Five years had passed before I visited Woodford. I took dinner at the hotel, and then sauntered forth in quest of my friends. At the first corner I inquired of a gentleman if he could tell me where the widow Morrison lived. He said she lived about half a mile away in a cottage by the lake shore. “But,” he added, “you need not go so far to see her. She went into that store but a few moments since. And he pointed to a dry goods store across the way, before which stood a new and handsome carriage. “Ah, there she comes.” I looked and saw a woman, but not the woman I had known. This woman was blooming and handsome, and seemed yet young. “I spoke of Mrs. Bertha Morrison,” I said. “And that’s she,” pursued the gentleman. Aye—and there is her son. Perhaps you haven’t heard—I lost the rest of the sentence. I had turned to look at the man who had followed the lady from the store—one of the grandest looking men I had ever seen. Our eyes met, and he recognized me. For an instant he was, like one transfixed, but he quickly recovered himself. He handed the lady into the carriage, and then came over to me. “God bless you!” he ejaculated, “I am glad you have come at last. But my mother must not see you here. It would be too much for her. Go to the hotel—wait there. I will come for you very soon.” As I walked back, the gentleman whom I had met upon the corner walked with me. I asked him if he was acquainted with Donald Morrison. He said he was. Could he tell me what Mr. Morrison was doing? “He’s making a new town of Woodford!” exclaimed my companion, enthusiastically. “Five years ago he hired a little schooner, and used to run down to Erie, and Cleaveland, and so on up to the Michigan shore. By-and-by he bought the schooner; and before the year was out he paid for it, and took another. To-day he owns three of the best steamboats on the lake.” In less than an hour Donald Morrison drove up to the door of the hotel, and I went home with him. The next hour was a chaos of joy and blessing. I cannot remember clearly what transpired. I only know that we wept together like children, and that both mother and son clung to me as to the source of their salvation and happiness. I spent almost a month at the lake shore cottage. They would not let me go sooner, nor would they let me go, even then, until I had promised that I would come to see them284 every summer, and oftener if I could do so. I still keep the Widow’s Mite, and the blessing of God rests upon it. Many a poor wanderer in the way of sin and shame has been turned back into the path of honor and true manhood through the influence of its simple and touching story. Would’st thou an erring soul redeem,
And lead a lost one back to God;
Would’st thou a guardian angel seem
To one who long in guilt hath trod?
Go kindly to him—take his hand,
With gentle words—within thine own;
And by his side a brother stand,
Till thou the demon, sin, dethrone.
Scorn not the guilty, then, but plead
With him, in kindest, gentlest mood,
And back the lost one thou mayest lead
To God, humanity and good!
Thou art thyself but man, and thou
Art weak, perchance to fall as he;
Then mercy to the fallen show,
That mercy may be shown to thee!
KING FREDERICK of Prussia, when out riding one day, saw an old farmer, who was plowing a field and singing cheerfully over his work. “You must be well off, old man,” cried the king. “Does this acre belong to you on which you so industriously labor?” “No, sir,” replied the old man, who of course had no idea that he was speaking to the king; “I am not so rich as that. I plow for wages.” “How much do you earn a day?” asked the king. “Eight groschen,” returned the man. That would be about twenty cents of our money. “That is very little,” said the king. “Can you get along with it?” “Get along! yes, indeed, and have something left.” “Well,” said the farmer, smiling, “I will286 tell you. Two groschen are for myself and my wife; with two I pay my old debts, two I lend, and two I give away for the Lord’s sake.” “This is a mystery which I cannot solve,” said the king. “Then I must solve it for you,” replied the farmer. “I have two old parents at home, who kept me and cared for me when I was young and weak and needed care. Now that they are old and weak, I am glad to keep and care for them. That is my debt, and it costs me two groschen a day to pay it. Two more I spend on my children’s schooling. If they are living when their mother and I are old, they will keep us, and pay back what I lend. Then with my last two groschen I support my two sick sisters, who can not work for themselves. Of course I am not compelled to give them the money; but I do it for the Lord’s sake.” “Well done, old man,” cried the king, as he finished. “Now I am going to give you something to guess. Have you ever seen me before?” “In less than five minutes you shall see287 me fifty times, and carry in your pocket fifty of my likenesses.” “This is indeed a riddle which I cannot guess,” said the farmer. “Then I will solve it for you,” returned the king; and with that he put his hand into his pocket, and pulling out fifty gold pieces, placed them in the hands of the farmer. “The coin is genuine,” said the king, for it also comes from our Lord God, and I am his pay-master. I bid you good-by.” And he rode off, leaving the good old man overwhelmed with surprise and delight. A MAN who prided himself on his morality, and expected to be saved by it, was constantly saying, “I am doing pretty well on the whole. I sometimes get mad and swear, but then I am strictly honest. I work on Sabbath when I am particularly busy, but I give a good deal to the poor, and I never was drunk in my life.” This man hired a canny Scotchman to build a fence around his lot. He gave him very particular directions. In the evening, when the Scotchman came in from his work, the man said, “Well, Jock, is the fence built, and is it tight and strong?” “I canna say that it is all tight and strong,” replied Jock,” but it is a good average fence, anyhow. If some parts are a little weak others are extra strong. I don’t know but I may have left a gap here and there, a yard wide, or so; but then I made up for it by doubling the number of rails on each side of the gap. I dare say that the cattle will find it a very good fence, on289 the whole, and will like it; though I canna just say that it’s perfect in every part.” “What!” cried the man, not seeing the point. “Do you tell me that you have built a fence around my lot with weak places in it, and gaps in it? Why you might as well have built no fence at all. If there is one opening, or a place where an opening can be made, the cattle will be sure to find it, and will go through. Don’t you know, man, that a fence must be perfect, or it is worthless?” “I used to think so,” said the dry Scotchman, “but I hear you talk so much about averaging matters with the Lord it seems to me we might try it with the cattle. If an average fence won’t do for them, I am afraid an average character won’t do for you in the day of Judgment. When I was on shipboard, and a storm was driving us on the rocks, the captain cried: ‘Let go the anchor!’ but the mate shouted back: ‘There is a broken link in the cable.’ Did the captain say when he heard that: ‘No matter, it’s only one link. The rest of the chain is good. Ninety-nine of the hundred links are strong. Its average is high. It only lacks one percent290 of being perfect. Surely the anchor ought to respect so excellent a chain, and not break away from it?’ No, indeed, he shouted, ‘Get another chain!’ “He knew that a chain with one broken link was no chain at all. That he might as well throw the anchor overboard without any cable, as with a defective one. So with the anchor of our souls. If there is the least flaw in the cable, it is not safe to trust it. We had better throw it away and try to get a new one that we know is perfect.” God does not say, “Be beautiful,” “Be wise,”
Be aught that man in man will overprize;
Only “Be Good,” the tender Father cries.
We seek to mount the still-ascending stair
To greatness, glory, and the crowns they bear;
We mount to fall heart-sickened in despair.
The purposes of life misunderstood
Baffle and wound us, but God only would
That we should heed his simple words—“Be good.”
DEAR grandma is one of those who “being dead yet speaketh.” The lessons she taught us are still fresh in our memories; and I am sure I am not the only one of our household who, in a moment of trial or perplexity, has glanced up at her portrait, and mentally exclaimed, “Oh, that those lips had language!” Grandma was not a preacher, or a lecturer—much less a censurer or reprover; but she was that most agreeable of teachers to childhood and youth, a story-teller. Yet, let no one suppose that she soiled her venerable lips, and poisoned our innocent ears by tales of fairy lore or ingenious romance, as pernicious as they are false. Not so; the stories we listened to with so much delight were all true, and all from the capacious store-house of her own memory. Nay, more—they each had a point and moral, and were usually produced as illustrations of whatever lessons she at the time was desirous of impressing on our ductile minds. Grandma’s narratives were always called forth by coincidences which, striking correspondent chords in her memory, awoke a train of facts in unison with the subject under consideration, and gave a clear and definite exemplification of a hitherto but dimly understood theory, thus frequently instilling knowledge and impressing truths by a judicious use of commonplace occurrences, which books and sermons had alike failed to effect. I shall now endeavor to transfer to paper some of her stories; and, if I can relate them with only half the grace, feeling, and pathos with which they fell from her lips, I shall be rewarded with as much attention as she always received from her audience. We had returned from the church one Sabbath afternoon, and, as usual, hastened to grandma to communicate as much as we had retained of the sermon. The text was that solemn parental injunction, “My son, when sinners entice thee, consent thou not;” and our pastor had made it the ground-work of a powerful exhortation—to the young especially—to beware of the many temptations, and snares, and allurements which they should meet in their onward path; and warned them293 of the consequences of yielding to the seductive influences by which they should be surrounded. “That reminds me of a young man whom I knew before any of you were born,” observed grandma, when we had reported as much as we could recollect of the discourse. “You have heard me speak of Jacob Wise?” she said, addressing my father. “Yes, mother,” he replied, “please to tell the children about him. I am sure your account of his experience will be a very suitable appendage to our afternoon sermon.” “O yes, grandma, please do!” we exclaimed; and, drawing our seats around her, we prepared for what we knew would be a treat. The good old lady did not require to be urged, but, after pausing a moment to arrange her ideas, commenced as follows:— “Jacob Wise was the son of a near neighbor when I was a happy wife in my Western home. His father was a plain, practical man, respected for his uprightness, good sense and piety; and he brought up his son in his own sound principles, at the same time giving him all the education that was within his reach. “When Jacob was about fourteen years of age, he was sent to Louisville for the benefit of a year’s instruction in a large school there, his father thinking that he would, at the end of that time, have gained sufficient knowledge and experience to fit him for whatever part Providence should assign him in life’s great drama.” “There were, also, other sons and daughters around his father’s hearth. It therefore appeared expedient that Jacob should be permitted to foster the talent he had early displayed for the active pursuits of the commercial world. “In his intercourse with his school-mates he gained his first insight into that society in which he was destined to find himself when launched on life’s broad sea; and there, within the narrow bounds of that juvenile circle, he had full scope for the exercise of all the prudence, patience, and fortitude that he had learned from his right-minded father.” “But I cannot recall much of his early experience. The first circumstances of any note, that I remember, which particularly marked his character, occurred at the time of his first practical acquaintance with business. “While in Louisville, he received much attention from the family of a wealthy man who kept a large store in the city; and when, at the close of his scholastic term, he was offered a place behind the counter of his friend, he found no difficulty in obtaining his father’s permission to accept of it. “Mr. Rankin was a smooth, bland, good-tempered man, and in his intercourse with the world maintained a fair and honest character. But Jacob had not been many weeks in intimate connection with him before he discovered that his dealings were not all conducted with scrupulous adherence to divine law; neither was a conscientious regard to his neighbor’s interests a very deep-seated principle. This caused him much concern; and a feeling of nervous disquiet took possession of the hitherto happy boy with respect to the most honorable course for him to pursue between his duty to his master and his own strict integrity. “But he was not left long in doubt. One day a carriage drove to the door, and a richly dressed lady, alighting, entered the store, and, approaching the counter where fancy articles were displayed, asked to be shown296 some children’s necklaces. Jacob, who attended in that department, was proceeding to wait on her, when Mr. Rankin came forward smiling, and with the ease and courtesy for which he was remarkable took the lad’s place, and spread before the lady an assortment of glittering trinkets which, judging from her gay appearance, he knew would please her eye. An animated dialogue ensued between the facetious store-keeper and his fair customer respecting the style and value of the various articles under view, in course of which the lady was made to believe that this elegant display had been imported with great cost and difficulty from the manufacturing cities of Europe, and, in consequence of the immense and rapid demand for them, the obliging trader had been satisfied with moderate profit, and was now willing to dispose of the remainder of the stock at fabulously low prices. To all this, which he knew to be utterly and shamelessly false, Jacob listened with equal grief and astonishment, and it was with difficulty he restrained his honest indignation as he saw one after another of the tinsel gewgaws transferred to the unsophisticated297 customer at prices which were five times their value, while she was duped with the flattering persuasion that she was receiving unequaled bargains. “All doubts as to the unlawfulness of his remaining another hour under the roof where this swindling transaction had taken place, were immediately removed from the mind of the upright youth; and when Mr. Rankin returned after having obsequiously attended the lady to her carriage, and placed the parcel containing her purchases by her side, he was met by Jacob, who, with an air of grave rebuke rarely assumed by lads of his years, informed him that from what he had seen of his method of conducting business he thought it quite impossible they could agree together; he was, therefore, resolved to return without delay to his father’s house, and he was glad that the terms upon which he had entered the establishment left him free to do so. “The firm and fearless bearing of the boy awed the man of unjust practices, who neither attempted to vindicate his own meanness nor to oppose the departure of his right-minded assistant; and Jacob returned to the old homestead again, his character more permanently298 formed by the ordeal through which he had passed.” “But do you think, grandma,” inquired Henry, “that Jacob would have acted so independently if he had had no home to return to?” “Yes, dear, I think he would,” was the prompt reply. “He had learned to obey the commands of God and to believe his promises. He knew that the injunction, ‘Come out from among them,’ was followed by the assurance, ‘I will receive you,’ and such was his trust in his Heavenly Father’s word that no thought for his future provision would have interfered with the performance of what he deemed to be his duty.” “Well, grandma,” said Henry, to whom this explanation was quite satisfactory, “please to go on, and forgive the interruption.” “Oh, don’t hesitate to interrupt me, dear,” she mildly said, “whenever you want to ask a useful question.” She then resumed her narrative. “Jacob remained at home for the next three years, making himself quite useful in teaching his young brothers and sisters, besides affording his father much assistance299 in the management of his affairs. In the meantime his own education was advancing, and every attainment that could facilitate his interest when on the commercial stage was sedulously cultivated. Nor was he without receiving many offers of clerkship in the neighboring cities, whither his good report had traveled; but a cousin of his father, who was a merchant of some eminence in New Orleans, had proposed to take him into his counting-house in a confidential capacity when he should reach a more mature age, and for this important post he was qualifying himself. “Accordingly, when he had completed his eighteenth year, a summons from his kinsman withdrew him once more from the genial atmosphere of home. This time his departure was a more serious affair than it had been when, a few years before, he left for school in Louisville. Now he was going to a large and populous city, where fashion and vice walked hand in hand, and where snares and pitfalls were spread for the simple and unwary, with scarcely a finger-mark cautioning them to beware. All the neighborhood was moved with sympathy for the youth who300 was about to be placed upon this scene of trial; and the last Sabbath of his attendance at our rural church the good pastor made the occasion of an eloquent and affectionate admonition from the text which was presented to your consideration to-day. “Our friend’s journey to the great maritime city of the South was not without incident. Mr. Wise accompanied his son to Louisville, and, after the necessary preliminary arrangements, went with him on board the boat that was to bear him down the lordly inland waters. His parting advice and benediction were then given, and, reminding him of the subject of his pastor’s last sermon, he wound up by giving him, as the motto of his life, the imperative charge, ‘Come out from among them.’ Then, as he desired to return home by daylight, and the boat was not to start for a couple of hours, he once more committed his son to the care and guidance of Heaven, and left him with a calm trust that he would keep the way of safety. “After a safe and pleasant trip on board the ‘Southern Belle,’ our young friend arrived in New Orleans. “He was much pleased with his new situation, and he found his relative a man of the most honorable and praiseworthy nature, and the place he held in his employment being near himself removed him from the evil influences under which young clerks so frequently suffer. Accommodations were procured for him in a first-class boarding-house, where none but persons of the best standing were admitted. And, whether owing to his attractions of mind or person, the sterling worth of his character, or the independent position of his family, or perhaps all these combined, he soon found himself an object of marked interest and attention to all with whom he came in contact. Naturally of a social disposition, and disposed to look at everything in the most favorable light, Jacob saw not in the cheerful company amidst which he was unavoidably thrown any of those vicious traits and habits whose contaminations he had been cautioned to shun; and, without partaking of the mirthful spirit by which the unwary are enticed into scenes of pleasurable folly, he did not deny himself the innocent recreations which an easy intercourse with those of302 perfectly moral tastes and feelings afforded. “And now to the unsophisticated youth life presented the fairest aspect. His religious duties were carefully attended to, and in the faithful discharge of his business engagements no one could be more punctiliously correct, while in the society of those whose spirits appeared to assimilate to his own he devoted those evening hours that could sometimes be spared from sterner pursuits. But it was not long before the hidden thorns of the flowers that strewed his path began to make themselves felt, nor was it without pain that conscience awoke him from the repose in which he had been lulling himself. Among the many charming sojourners at the establishment in which he had taken up his abode, was the family of a wealthy planter, who had come to the city for the winter. Mr. and Mrs. De Veaux were a lively and fashionable couple, and their children partook of the gay and careless temperament of their parents. Isabel, the eldest, was now in her sixteenth year, and the faultless beauty of her face and figure was only equaled by the soft and child-like sweetness of her disposition. She had been brought up without303 much restriction or control, and now that she was entering the vortex of society, being gay, spirited, and witty, she flung herself into the enjoyments of fashionable pleasure with all the zest of the newly emancipated. “The winter glided along with its witching gayeties, and, though the young Christian was never tempted to join the giddy multitude in their unlawful pastimes, yet his views were more lax than they had been. With the hope of his presence having a restraining effect upon the fair being who had touched the tenderest chords of his nature, he suffered himself to be led into scenes such as sober conscience could not approve as friendly to the interests of religion.” At length, however, the alarm came that was to disturb his security. A sermon was announced, in the church to which he belonged, to be preached by a highly celebrated divine before the members of the ‘Young Men’s Christian Association.’ Jacob, of course, attended, and heard with startled interest the minister deliver, as his text, the monition which the pious pastor of his country home had made the subject of the last304 discourse he had heard from him: ‘My son, when sinners entice thee consent thou not.’ “The young man of irreproachable life had no idea that this exhortation could be applied to his case; so careful had he ever been in eschewing the evil, that ‘sinners’ were granted no opportunity of enticing him. Nevertheless, to many of the young men present, who were not so cautious, he hoped the discourse would prove salutary, and settled himself to listen to the brilliant orator, without any other anticipation than that of an intellectual treat. But his self-complacency did not last long. To that class of youth of which he was a member did the preacher address his warmest and most urgent appeals. He exposed the subtle vail woven by the ‘prince of this world’ over the consciences of those who hated vice, under screen of which he led them into the pleasures of earth, and, without requiring them to commit one apparent sin, seduced their hearts from God, from holiness, and from heaven. “Painfully solemn were the feelings with which Jacob retired at the close of the service. The film had passed from his eyes,305 and he saw that while his outward walk had been strictly correct, his heart had wandered from its true allegiance. “Upon reaching home, the usual sounds of music and dancing, accompanied by gay voices and laughter, issued from the well-lit parlors; but the sickening sensations that ran through his frame, at the thought of time thus wasted, and creatures fashioned in their Maker’s image perverting their fine intelligences, showed the change that had been effected in his views within the last hour. With a quick step he ascended to his chamber, and to a late hour sad and prayerful musings over the unhappy position in which he found himself occupied his mind. “That Isabel must be given up, with all her attractions, was now inevitable; and lone and cheerless did his future appear, unillumined by her bright glance and smile. Life, with all the high aspirations of youth, dwindled into nothingness before him; and, casting himself upon his knees and throwing forth his hands, he groaned for help to enable him to bear the blow which had descended on his hopes. “With Jacob Wise to know his duty was to306 do it; and, having felt the evil of intimate association with light and giddy worldlings, he determined to procure some more retired abode, where no similar temptation should waylay him. Accordingly, on the following morning, he waited on his pastor, and, after stating the circumstances in which he was placed, entreated assistance toward obtaining board in some private family connected with the church. The reverend gentleman sympathized with his young friend, and, after a few minutes’ consideration, mentioned a pious couple of his charge, whose only son had lately gone from home, and into whose vacant room he thought it likely Jacob might be admitted. He kindly added, that he would himself call upon them during the day and make the inquiry, promising to let the young man know the result. “It was as he hoped. Mrs. Bennet, when she heard the case, was glad to be able to supply a home to the prudent youth, feeling satisfied that one so exemplary would be a choice accession to her little circle; and the arrangement being made, and Jacob duly advised of it, no other difficulty now remained but his parting with her whose power over307 his youthful heart had been so dangerously exercised. “Jacob returned home at the usual hour in the evening; and, having communicated to the hostess his intention of leaving on the following morning, he proceeded to the ladies’ parlor in quest of Isabel.” “He found her seated at the piano, and a long conversation ensued, in which opinions and sentiments entirely opposite were maintained by each. On subjects of vital importance they were disagreed. Their souls had no affinity. And finally they, whose hearts had received their first tender impressions from each other, with an apparent calmness inconsistent with their inward feelings, separated, to meet no more.” Grandma paused, and for several minutes no one seemed disposed to speak. Each of us was looking into his own heart’s recesses to see if there were grace enough there to bear us conquerors through such trials as might be in store for us. The silence was broken by Henry, inquiring the sequel of the young Christian’s career. “Well,” said grandma, “the rest of his life was marked by a consistent adherence to308 the principles of his youth. He visited his parents every summer; and continued to gladden their hearts by the purity and simplicity of his life, making it evident that they who devote themselves to the service of God can be preserved from evil, though surrounded by the temptations of a rich and crowded city. “When he had been six or seven years in New Orleans, he was taken into partnership by his kinsman and employer; and shortly after he married the pious daughter of his pastor, whose sweet companionship gently irradiated his after course. “It is a long time since I have had an opportunity of hearing of Jacob Wise; but I dare say, if still living, he is an example of moral dignity, truth, and uprightness, and an honor to the church of which he has been, from childhood, a steady and consistent member.” STAND for the right, whate’er your condition,
Even though friends may to enemies turn,
Better have enemies in a just mission,
Than a dark record of infamy earn.
Friendship that’s fickle is not worth preserving,
Wealth gained by fraud and deceit is a curse,
Stand by the right, then, undaunted, unswerving,
Poverty’s bad, but dishonesty’s worse.
Stand by the right—it were folly to barter
Self-independence for station or gain—
Better to virtue and truth fall a martyr
Than win a success mixed with sorrow and pain.
An unsullied heart and a conscience approving,
Are worth all the wealth that the world can bestow.
Stand by the right, be forgiving and loving,
Asking no favor and fearing no foe.
Stand for the right! ’tis the best and the sweetest—
Wrong may appear for a while to succeed;
But he is most happy whose heart is the purest,
A self-condemned sinner is wretched indeed.
Hate and detraction in vain may assail thee
If thou art pure, when their arrows they cast,
Honor and rectitude never will fail thee;
Stand for the right and you’ll triumph at last,